The Baby in the Cottage.
By Ladies' Repository
A SMALL brown cottage stood on the roadside, opposite an old mill. From the door you could see the great wheel slowly turning; and when the air was still you could hear the dull rumbling of machinery. The miller's family lived in the brown cottage. Shall I tell you how many were in this family? Just three. Two little girls and a baby. But where was the mother? you ask. There was no mother in the miller's brown cottage; only two little girls and a baby. One month ago the mother's earthly life had failed and flickered, as you have seen the light of a lamp when the oil was consumed. Then it went out; and there were tears and grief in the brown cottage. As for the mother, sorrow and sickness had made both heart and body weak. For a long time before she died a great shadow rested on her life—a shadow that grew darker day by day. But she was loving and pure, and, in his own good time, the Lord closed her tearful eyes . . . Sad as her life was, she would have clung to it if it had been a thousand times sadder, for the sake of her little ones. But God knew what was best for her and those she loved. "Where was the baby's father?" I hear asked. "Did he not love and care for it, and for his two little girls also?" I said that a shadow rested on the poor mother's heart—a shadow that grew darker every day. Such shadows rest on many hearts. The miller had once been the kindest of husbands and the tenderest of fathers. What had changed him? Drink! You know too well what that means. Once he took a glass of beer only now and then; not that it made him feel any better, but really worse, for it produced a heaviness of head and limbs that was very unpleasant while it lasted. Sometimes a headache was the consequence. But others drank beer, and he joined in the useless and unsafe custom. After a while this unwholesome stuff so changed the healthy, natural state of his stomach, that it began to crave the bitter stimulating draught. Then he drank oftener, which, of course, only made it worse—increasing the unhealthy condition, and likewise the craving thirst that could never be satisfied—no, not even with beer; and so, at times, whiskey, gin, and brandy were taken. These lead to ruin by a quicker way than ale or beer; because they are more fiery and burn with a fiercer flame. You can understand now why a shadow had rested on the mother of these children, and why it had grown darker every day. The baby was a year old. Hester, or Hetty as she was called, had just passed her tenth birthday, and Mary was seven. So young, and motherless. At first thought it seems as if it would have been better for them to be fatherless also. But God knows what is best always. His tender care was over these little ones, and over their father too. Now, that baby was one of the loveliest things alive—so sweet and pure; so gentle, yet so full of infantile joy; and so winning in all his ways that none could help loving him. This neighbor and that offered to take him when his mother died, but Hetty, who had seemed to grow into a woman all at once, said, "no, no, I can't part from baby." Then a lady, who had no children, took the half-drunken, wretched father aside and talked to him till he consented to let her have the baby and bring him up as her own. She wanted to carry him right off, but the miller said, "No, not till to-morrow." "Better let me take him now," urged the lady. For Hetty's sake the miller repeated his "no." He knew how great was her love for the baby, and there was enough of tenderness in his heart to keep him from adding this to her grief on the day of her mother's burial. Now it happened that Hetty, unknown to her father and the woman, had heard what had passed between them. At first she was almost beside herself with pain. It was as much as her heart could bear to lose her mother, and she felt that to take baby also, would, as she said afterwards, "just kill her." The funeral over, all the neighbors went home, except two, more tender-hearted and pitying than the rest. It seemed cruel to them to turn their backs upon these two little girls and the sweet baby left motherless. One of them had been a very dear friend of the miller's wife, and she grieved for her loss as for that of a beloved sister. Taking Hetty by the hand, and leading her into her mother's room, now so still and desolate, she shut the door, and throwing both her arms about the child, burst into tears and wept over her for a long time before she could get calm enough to speak. "I want to talk with you, Hetty," she said at length, as she sat down and composed herself. The blinding tears dried out of Hetty's eyes as she fixed them wistfully on the woman's face. "What are you going to do?" Ah, that was the hardest of all questions to answer. Hetty's eyes rested for a little while on the woman's face, and then dropped to the floor. Raising them quickly, after a moment; she replied:— "If they'll only let me keep baby, Mrs. Wilder." The thought of his being taken away came back so vividly to the mind of Hetty that she could not bear it. Her lips quivered, and she burst again into tears. "I thought you were going to keep him," said the neighbor. "Mrs. Florence wants him, and says she'll take care of him just as if he was her own." "I don't know that," remarked the neighbor. "If Mrs. Florence will take him—" "It's very kind in her," said Hetty interrupting the sentence, "and I am sure she would be good to him. But, indeed, Mrs. Wilder, I can't let him go. I feel just as if I should die if they were to take him away. You don't know how I do love him." "But you are so young, Hetty. Almost a child yourself. You can't take care of baby. And then who is to be housekeeper?" "I've thought it all over, Mrs. Wilder over and over again—and Mary and I can do it all," said Hetty. "Mary and you! Why, Mary is only seven years old," answered the neighbor. "She's a handy little thing for all that. Oh, we can get along, if they won't take baby." "What does your father say about it? Has Mrs. Florence spoken to him?" "Yes; I heard them talking it over. Mrs. Florence wanted to take the baby right off, but father said, 'wait till to-morrow.'" "It would, perhaps, be better for the baby"— "It wouldn't be for any body," spoke out Hetty, in a strong and decided manner. "And in particular it wouldn't be for father." "Why not for your father?" asked Mrs. Wilder. Hetty's face grew hot, and then pale; and her voice choked a little at first as she answered:— "You know about father, how dreadful it is. It will get worse if baby goes. I'm sure of that. He loves baby. And now that mother's gone, I've thought his loving baby so might help him to—to—" Hetty paused; she could not speak the word that was on her tongue, but the neighbor understood her. "You are a wise little girl," said Mrs. Wilder, laying her hand on the child's head tenderly, "and in the right, I'm thinking. Now tell me freely all that is in your mind." "It's just this, Mrs. Wilder," said Hetty, her manner taking on the thoughtful seriousness of a woman. "Father loves baby, and now that mother's gone he will feel softer towards us all. Mary and I will do every thing to make it comfortable for him; and, we'll always keep baby looking so sweet and clean that he'll love to come home just to see him, instead of going to the tavern when he shuts down the mill. If Mrs. Florence would give baby a nice white frock, and one with a pink or blue spot in it, and a pair of new shoes, I could keep him looking, Oh, so lovely! Father couldn't help coming right home from the mill to see him; and who knows, Mrs. Wilder," Hetty continued, growing warm and hopeful, "but father might stop drinking altogether. Oh, if Mrs. Florence would do this, and not think of taking baby away!" "I'll see Mrs. Florence and talk with her," said Mrs. Wilder as Hetty stopped speaking. "Will you? O, do, please, right away! Tell her that it won't be good for us to let baby go." Mrs. Florence, when all this was related to her was deeply moved. She had lost a dear baby two years before, and the clothes it used to wear had been folded away in a bureau drawer, untouched since then. "The dear child shall have her way," she answered. Then going to the drawer, into which she had not looked for many months, she took out three almost new frocks, one of white muslin, and two of delicately figured chintz; also three pairs of stockings, a pair of morocco shoes, and some underclothing, and sent them to the motherless baby. On the next day the miller, sobered by the loss of his wife, kept away from the tavern, and tried to settle in his own mind what was best for him to do. He had promised the baby to Mrs. Florence, but baby had given him so tight a hug he kissed and parted from him at breakfast time, that he felt his dear little arms clinging around his neck all the morning as he went about the mill. How could he let him go? And Hetty was good and thoughtful, and so fond of baby. It would break his heart to give him up. "What a handy girl Hetty is," the miller said to himself, as he remembered how nice a breakfast she had got for him, and how clean and orderly everything was about the house. As it drew toward noon the miller began to feel a little anxious about his promise to Mrs. Florence. She was to have baby that day. What if she had come for him already, and that when he went home at dinner time there should be no baby to spring into his arms and hug him around the neck! In the meantime Hetty had received the bundle of clothes, and with the bundle had come a message from Mrs. Florence, saying that she had changed her mind about taking the baby. "Oh, darling, darling!" exclaimed Hetty, almost wild with joy, hugging and kissing the baby, who crowed, and laughed, and hugged and kissed her in return, as if he understood and shared in her delight. "Oh, but won't he look sweet!" she exclaimed, as she opened and admired the beautiful baby clothes, finer than anything he had ever worn. "Father will be home soon," she said to Mary. "You set the table, and I'll wash petty and dress him in his pink slip with the white ruffled apron, and tie the sleeves with bows of blue ribbon. He'll look so sweet that father will hardly know him." So baby was washed and dressed in the new clothes, and I can tell you he did look lovely. There was not a handsomer baby in all the neighborhood. "He's going to sleep," said Mary, who saw his eyes beginning to droop. "Oh, I wish he'd stay awake till father comes." But even as she spoke the long dark lashes fell lower and lower, till they rested on his cheeks. "You hold him till I put on a clean pillow-case," and Hetty placed the sleeper in her sister's arms. A soiled pillow-case was changed for one of snowy whiteness, and baby laid upon the bed where only a few days before his mother had slept the sleep from which none ever awaken in this world. How lovely he was! No wonder the little sisters lingered about the bed, so entranced by his beauty that it seemed impossible to tear themselves away. "Father is coming," said Mary, who had turned her eyes to the window. Hetty looked out and saw him crossing the road. His steps were quicker and firmer than usual. "I want him to see baby all alone by himself." And Hetty, as she spoke, drew Mary from the room. They heard a low exclamation of surprise from their father when he entered, and then all was still—still for so long a time that Hetty began to wonder, and to feel uneasy. At last, pushing open the door softly, she looked in and saw her father kneeling by the bedside, his face buried in the clothes. A little while she stood, almost holding her breath. She was about closing the door, when he lifted his head from the bed-clothes and fixed his eyes on the baby. Tears wet his cheeks. How fondly, tenderly, almost reverently did he look at the sleeping child—pure as an angel! A slight movement drew his attention to Hetty. After a moment, he then said:— The two children went up to him. He took them in his arms, still kneeling, and tried to speak to them. But sobs choked back the words he would have uttered. At last, in the anguish of repentance, and in half despair of his own strength, he cried out:— "O, Lord and Saviour, help me to be a father indeed to these motherless little ones!" Then a deep quiet fell upon them—a stillness, as if each listened for an audible answer to the almost wildly spoken prayer. Hetty was the first to break the silence. "Dear father," she said, kissing him and tenderly stroking his cheek, "we'll do everything, Mary and I, to make it nice for you at home. And we'll keep baby as sweet and clean as the richest baby in the land. Oh, isn't he a darling!" Then they all arose and bent over the sleeping baby; and though death had just taken their dearest one away, it was a long, long time since the waves of happiness had flooded their hearts as deeply as now. The shadow that lifted that day did not fall again. The miller had dragged himself, by a strong effort, through strength given him from heaven, out of a worse slough than Christian got mired in, ere he reached the wicket gate. Once more on firm ground, love for his baby that grew more winning every day, and love for his dear children, Hetty and Mary, who never tired of doing for their father, God used as the means of keeping his feet in the safe ways of sobriety. He never went again astray.—Ladies' Repository.